Ordinarily Normal
by theangelshavemymind
Summary: Sherlock has a secret, one which keeps him distant from his quite normal flatmate. But he knows he can't hold on forever. Johnlock. vampire AU
1. Caring

**Author's Note: Johnlock is sorta inevitable in a story like this, what with the relationship (my idea of the relationship) between vampires and their prey... which is, uh, us. So just be warned. Also note that this is an alternate (but similar) universe fan fiction.**

Sherlock's POV:

* * *

I close my eyes and breathe slowly. Breathing in every smell, every scent. My senses pick up everything. The dampness in the air. Rain. A faint smell of burnt. Someone's lit a fire. I can hear the screeching of the brakes on a cab and the faint smell of cigarette fills my nostrils. Someone brushes my sleeve. A sound reaches my ears. The steady beating of a heart.

_Steady. Focus on what you're doing. Home. You're going home. _More heartbeats. The London night crowd. Thousands of people, oblivious, unsuspecting people. Just one wouldn't hurt. There are so many of them. They wouldn't even remember. A young girl brushes past me. She's hurrying quickly to some destination. Her quickened heartbeat pounds in my ears.

I round a corner and duck into a nearby alley. Leaning against the wall, I try to breathe. _Easy. You can't. _I close my eyes and try to shut out everything, but it's no use. All the sounds of life pound in my ears. Smells fill my senses. _A+, B-, oh an O. Those are tangy… no, stop. Stop. _I have to stop. I can't. But I want to. I haven't let myself in month. It's not healthy, it's dangerous. But what else am I supposed to do? I can't just go out and feed whenever I want. Normally walks in the moonlight help clear my mind from such thoughts, but it's been so bloody long.

My tongue darts out in between my chapped lips. I need to feed. There's always the morgue. There's enough blood there to last a lifetime, or part of one. But I want fresh blood. Warm flowing blood. My breathing has increased. The thought of fresh blood makes my body shake. I can't go on much longer. I need to get inside. _You can do this. You've lasted this long. Just get back to the flat._

"Are you okay?"

_God no. No. _I won't open my eyes. I don't have to. Girl. Small build. Young. Vulnerable. Just wanting to help. Heartbeat steady.

"Do you need help?" I can feel her hand on my coat. I open my eyes. She's standing in front of me, concern filling her large eyes. "Do you want me to get you help?"

I open my mouth to say something, but immediately the scent of her flows into it. _B+. _I shove my hands into my eyes.

"NO!" I find myself yelling, more to me than to her. She takes a step back, but she can see that I'm shaking.

"Listen. I'm gonna get you some help, okay?" She tries taking my arm. I look down at her. My eyes go automatically to her neck. She's wearing a semi-revealing shirt so it's fully exposed. I can see a vain pulsing under her thin skin.

"You don't look so good," she says leaning in close to my face. She puts a hesitant hand to my forehead pushing my sweat-soaked bangs out of the way. "God, you're burning up." She pulls her hand away, but I grab it. Her eyebrows knit together. "What are y-" I cover her mouth with my hand. I can't take it anymore. I have to feed, and it's now or never.

I drag her further into the alley. Her screams are muffled under my hand. We're near the back of the alley when she bites into my hand. I pull it back and hiss, she screams once but I stop her with my other hand.

I push her up against the wall, trapping her with my legs and my free hand. Her wild eyes dart back and forth pleadingly. I hate to do this to her. She was just trying to help, but I can't wait any longer. I take my hand off her mouth and move it to her throat pressing into her vocal chords. She makes a strangled noise, but I don't pay attention.

I lean in toward her neck. Her scent overwhelms me. I can smell her perfume, her fear. My fangs extend and I hover them over her neck. My pupils dilate. My irises change from blue to a deep red. I sink my teeth into her neck, feeling the blood pooling in my mouth. It's wonderful. So warm. I gulp it down gleefully. I can feel it running down my throat, throughout my body, warming my cold limbs.

The girl shudders and slips down the wall. I put my hand under her back to keep her upright. I'm still sucking the blood from her. I know how much I can take. A pint, no more.

I lap up her blood eagerly, trying not to take it too quickly, trying to savor it. She moans quietly and then her head falls forward. She's blacked out. At least she doesn't feel any more pain.

I take as much as I can; resisting the urge to drain her completely, then I lay her gently on the ground and head out of the alley. Someone will find her in the morning. She'll be fine. I wipe the blood off my mouth with the back of my hand. I'm hesitant to lick it off, but I have to. Can't just go round London with my hand covered in blood. People would talk.

I reach 221B in record time, feeling refreshed. I hate sucking the blood from innocent people, but god, having fresh blood always makes me feel wonderful, better than any drug can make me feel. If only it weren't what it is.

I silently slip into the flat, taking care to shut the door so that it doesn't creak. It's almost 3am. So why is the telly still on? I creep silently into the sitting room. John's passed out on the sofa. It's obvious that he had tried to wait up for me.

I look toward the telly, some late night movie is playing. I switch it off and revel in the silence of the room. John's steady breathing is the only sound that reaches my sensitive ears. It's beautiful. I turn to watch him. God he's adorable, curled up in a little ball. He's wearing his striped jumper, clutching the Union Jack pillow to his chest as though it's a teddy bear.

I could watch him all night, but I can't. I go over to him and scoop him up in my arms. He's light as a feather mostly because of my strength, which has been renewed thanks to my recent feeding. John mumbles something and clutches at my shirt in his sleep. My heart flutters a little. _No. No, Sherlock. No emotions. _

I clear my head and carry John upstairs to his room. I set him down on his bed and pull the covers over him. He snuggles down into his pillow and sighs, a slight smile on his lips. I ruffle his hair a bit. _My blogger. My innocent little blogger. _He doesn't know. He doesn't know about me. Doesn't know what I am. He doesn't know the reason for my late nights on the town, why I go so long without eating, or why I stay cooped up in 221B on sunny days. He doesn't know and he can never know.

I brush the back of my cold fingers on his warm cheek. He stirs a bit, his eyelids flutter. I quickly duck out of his room and shut the door. I walk back downstairs and head into the bathroom. Shutting the door I lean against it and sigh heavily.

I look over at the mirror to my right. My gaunt reflection stares back at me. It's not true, what people say about vampires. I should know. We're not bloodthirsty monsters, at least not all the time. We have our episodes, just like anyone in denial of anything. We do have reflections. It's true that we don't like sunlight, but we don't burst into flames when it touches us, or do anything stupid like sparkle. And we do feel things, which can be a problem. At least it's a problem for me.

My problem put simply is John. Ever since I met him I've felt that need. That urge. I want him. But it's more than just the usual want. I want more than his blood. I want him, all of him, which scares me. I've never had to deal with feelings before. I've always been good at keeping them distant. But when I'm around John, my defenses melt away. He's just so genuine, so sweet, so unafraid. It makes me think that maybe I could be with him, that he wouldn't be scared of me. But who am I kidding. I'm a monster. I know the moment I have him, I won't be able to resist, and that's what keeps me distant from him. He assumes it's because I'm some sort of inhuman machine, incapable of feeling any emotion. If only he knew.

I run my hand through my hair and breathe a few times then I take my coat off and hang it on the door. The front of my shirt is soaked in blood. I pray that I didn't get any on John. I strip myself of the wet garment and I let it soak in the sink as I take a ridiculously long shower. Standing under the water helps me relax, helps me think. I lean my head back and let the hot droplets hit my face, letting them wash away any traces of blood that might still be on me.

I finish and then slip into a fresh shirt and pants and my blue robe. I sit in my chair and flip through the channels on the telly. Nothing. News. Nothing. Soaps. Nothing. I switch it off and press my fingertips together. I close my eyes and think. I could try to go to sleep, but what's the point? I don't need sleep, it's just a distraction. But what else is there to do?

Sighing, I make my way to my room. I slide under the covers and curl up in a tight ball. I wish John were with me. The cold covers against my icy skin makes me shiver. He would be able to warm me up. Maybe I should go and keep him company? _No, you idiot. You can't just go and "keep him company." You know what will happen and then what? He'll know and he'll leave. _

I close my eyes and try to sleep, clearing my mind of all thoughts. I don't want to think about John, I don't want to feel. It's bad enough that I have to deal with what I am; I don't need silly feeling to complicate things even further.

I toss and turn for hours and then I decide to just go and sit on the sofa. The first rays of morning are just staring to flit in through the curtains as I make my way to the living room. I cringe as the sunbeams cross over my face. Cursing, I pull the drapes shut all the way. Sunlight always annoys me. Why do we even need it? It's just there for the plants and such, why can't it just be centered on them? Why's it got to go bloody everywhere?

I sprawl out on the couch and close my eyes. The sound of early morning reaches my ears. Life goes on as usual outside the flat. Ordinary people with ordinary lives. And then there's me. God, I wish I could be normal. Live life like everyone else. Day by day. Not a care in the world.

I lose track of the hours, lying there on the couch, wishing that I wasn't what I am. Finally I hear a noise from behind me. John.

"Mornin," John says shuffling into the kitchen. He pops some toast into the toaster. "Want me to make you something?"

I shake my head. "Already eaten."

John nods. He hums as he bustles about the kitchen buttering his toast and trying to decide what jam to use.

I watch him through half-lidded eyes. He's so ordinary. So normal. It's ridiculous. I wish again that I could be like him. He sits down and opens today's paper. Taking a bite of toast he peruses the pages.

"You gotten any new cases?" John asks through a mouthful of toast.

"No," I respond, closing my eyes.

John makes a 'hmm' noise and his eyes dart back and forth on the newspaper page. He stops and furrows his brow. "You see this?" he asks pointing to the page. "Young girl was found in an alley last night. Says she had been attacked by something." I stiffen. "Bite marks on her neck." John looks up. "Sound interesting?"

I've made the paper. I knew it was stupid to feed, especially in the streets, but I couldn't help myself.

John looks over at me. "You want to investigate?" I shake my head. John goes back to his toast. I can tell that he wants me to have something to do. We haven't had cases for god knows how long, and we both know how I get when I'm bored. Cases also help to take my mind off other things, like physical needs and wants. Off of feeding, and John.

John glances up at the clock. "Whew, that late already?" he says getting up. He tries to find a place for his plate among my experiments. He ends up just leaving the plate on the table. He comes into the sitting room and stands over the couch looking down at me. "You gonna be staying in today?"

I open an eye and look up at him. "Yes," I reply curtly, ignoring the fact that John's scent is overpowering. It fills my senses and I bite my lip. I can hear his steady heartbeat above me, the sound of his soft breathing. He's AB+. I've never tasted that before. _No. No you don't. You can't. This is John._

My body betrays me. I can feel my incisors pressing insistently on my bottom lip. They would be drawing blood if I had any to spill. John does. _No. Stop._ I want John to go away. I can't risk injuring him. Luckily he heads to the stairs.

He turns at the base of the stairs and stands there. "Uh, Sherlock," he says softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was thinking. After I get back from work, this evening. Um. We should go out and catch up. We haven't had a good chat for a while. And flatmates need to keep up to date with each other."

He smiles and I feel that sensation in the pit of my stomach. That little fluttering. _No. No emotions. _

"Would that be okay tonight?" John asks.

"That sounds fine," I say, my speech partially slurred because of my teeth, which won't go away.

John remains oblivious to my problem. "Great! Shall we say Angelo's?" I nod. John smiles again and bounds upstairs. I make sure he's gone and then I lose it.

I lay there panting on the couch, my fangs fully bared. Why are they doing this? John's scent still fills my head. It's warm and soothing, but god knows what it's doing to me. What John's doing to me.

I want him so badly. Every fiber within me is screaming for him. I want to run my hands through that messy little mop of his, to stare into those puppy dog eyes, to feel his heat, warm against my cold. My mind strays to dangerous territory, thinking about what I might do with him if I had him. What I could do with him.

I run my tongue over my fangs. John's skin is so soft; it would only take one bite. My pupils dilate. One bite, just one bite.

_Stop it. _I realize what's going on. _Calm down. _I close my eyes and breathe. What's happening to me? What is this? I've never felt this must need for anything before. Sure when I go without feeding for a long time it comes close. But this is different. This is new. It's not just his blood that's doing this to me. It's him.

"Sherlock? You okay?" John's back. I get up from the couch, clamping my mouth shut.

"I'm fine," I mumble through clenched teeth. _Get out of here John. Get out. _

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I gasp. "I'm just going to my room." _Go John. Get away from me. _I push past him in the hallway. He stops me. His fingers feel like fire on my arm.

"Get some rest," John orders. He lets go of my arm. "See you tonight then?" I nod. I have to get away from him. We're so close. I can see every detail of his face, the little bit of worry behind his deep eyes.

Without meaning to, my eyes slide down to his neck. My fangs extend to their full length, pushing my mouth open slightly. I swear I'm shaking. John pats me on the shoulder and gives me a small smile. I breathe through my nose, restraining myself from lunging at him. Then he's gone, off to work like a normal bloke.

As soon as the door clicks I slump down on the wall. Clutching my head in my hands I focus on breathing. My breath comes out in strangled gasps, whistling past my extended fangs. I'm fighting the urge to scream. There are too many emotions.

John. I can't do it anymore. I have to be with him. I have to. _But you'll hurt him. You know you will. _I stand up shakily, propping myself against the wall for support. I know what I could do to him, but I can't take it anymore.

Tonight. I'll ask him tonight. And I'll tell him what I am. I'll let him decide what he wants to do. If he leaves then at least I won't risk hurting him. But what if he doesn't care? What if he says that he's not afraid? He's John Watson, MD. He's not afraid of such things as vampires. He's been through war. He can handle me.

My mind reels at the thought of John possibly being okay with me. Possibly wanting me. Deep down I know that once he finds out what I am it'd be over. But I don't let myself focus on that. I think about the possibility that John and I can be together.

I slowly make my way to my room, where I fall onto the bed and stare up at the ceiling. I've calmed down a bit. My eyes are normal, but my teeth still have a ways to go before I don't have to worry about them.

I close my eyes. I hate what I am. If I could change I would. But this is the card I've been dealt. If only I could be what John thinks I am, the unemotional consulting detective, who cares about no one but himself. If only that were true. If only I didn't care about John Watson.

* * *

**End of Chapter 1. Chapter 2 will be posted shortly. **


	2. Dinner and Monsters

**Okay. Chapter 2. Here's a hint: Sherlock didn't hold out long.**

**John's POV:**

* * *

Work. Bloody work. It's so boring. Luckily today seemed to go by faster than usual. Not as many patients. There was one incident, a boy with a rather nasty nosebleed. Other than that, smooth.

I walk into the flat with a smile on my face. Good day at work. Night out with flatmate. Sure the flatmate is Sherlock Holmes, but still, he's not the worst, it's not like I share a flat with Anderson, that would be a nightmare.

Sherlock's sitting in his chair when I walk in. He's dressed how he usually is. He's wearing that purple shirt. It even looks like he combed his hair, partially, it still sticks up on one side and his bangs fall in front of his face. If it weren't me saying it, I'd say he looked handsome.

"You ready to go?" I ask setting my things on the inch of free space on the kitchen table. Sherlock nods. He's obviously been thinking. He's doing that thing he always does, pressing his fingertips together and breathing slowly. He's so calm. He's always so calm. How does he do that?

I feel like I'm usually breathless and freaking out whenever I'm around him. And not for those reasons, well not entirely. He does sort of make me feel, interesting. He's so mysterious, with those cheekbones and that coat of his. But we're not anything, are we?

"John?" Sherlock is standing in the doorway looking expectantly at me.

"Oh, right. Coming," I stutter, pulling my coat on. He ducks out of the room, his coat billowing in his wake. I stand there for a few seconds, and then I follow him. We tell Mrs. Hudson not to wait up and then he hails us a cab.

The cab ride is spent mostly in silence. I try to make conversation. "Nice weather." "Dull." "So, no new cases, hmm?" "Nope." "We still don't have any milk." "So?" I spend the rest of the ride staring out the widow.

Things aren't usually this awkward between us. Usually there's a case to talk about, is that really all we talk about? I guess. We don't really have much in common. Sure we share a flat, but that's about it.

I glance over at Sherlock. His eyes are closed, but I can see his eyes moving back and forth beneath his eyelids. His brain never stops. It's always going a million miles an hour. Sometimes I feel sorry for him, he rarely calms down enough to sleep a full night, and then there's the nicotine addiction. But there's also the violin music at three in the morning, the fact that all he cares about is himself, his utter disdain for people as a whole, those blasted experiments of his.

Sometimes I swear I hate him, other times, I'm not sure. I can't really pinpoint my emotions toward Sherlock. There are times when I feel like I might be drawn to him, like everyone says. Like when his eyes glow when the sunlight hits them from the side, or how he makes me feel like I actually have a purpose. But then he's back to doing something stupid or self obsessed. And plus, he's Sherlock, so I'm sure he could never feel any emotion toward a human being other than loathing or maybe toleration. He'd never feel anything as silly as love, not that I want that. Or do I? _John. You're being stupid. This is your flatmate. This is Sherlock. _

We finally arrive at Angelo's. Instead of sitting at our usual table by the front windows, we sit in the back at a secluded table. _Great. Now it looks like we're on some kind of romantic date. _Angelo lights a candle at the table. _Not a bloody candle. _I thank him anyway.

Sherlock doesn't even glance at his menu. He puts his elbows on the table and laces his fingers together, resting his chin on his thumbs. I can feel him staring at me as I glance through the menu. _Why does he have to do that? _I look up. He hasn't even taken off his coat. He's just staring at me. God his eyes are beautiful. _No. No John, you're not doing this. Nope._

I sit back and clear my throat. "So," I say trying to hold Sherlock's intense gaze. "How are you?" It sounds even stupider than it did in my head.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says softly.

I nod and look around. Why is this so hard? It's not like we've never gone out to dinner together before. What's different about this time? I look back at Sherlock. His eyes are darting back and forth across my face. What is he doing?

"Something wrong?" I ask. He just shakes his head and continues staring at me. It's getting annoying. I lean forward so that I'm closer to him. "Why are you staring at me?" I ask in a whisper.

He blinks twice and mumbles, "Sorry." Then he sits back and crosses his arms staring at the table.

He's been acting strange lately, well, stranger than usual. Strange for hasn't gone outside much, and if he does it's only at night and he stays out forever, finally coming back at some ungodly hour. Like last night. Last night. I realize that I had fallen asleep on the couch but woken up in my bed.

"Sherlock," I say shifting uncomfortably in my chair "Did you, um. Did you move me to my bed last night?"

"Yes," he answers still looking away from me, "Is that a problem?"

"No. I was just, uh, wondering." He's silent. It seems strange for him to have moved me, but then again, maybe he wanted to sleep on the couch, he was there when I came downstairs. He hardly sleeps in his bed anyway. And why should I care if he tucked me in last night? That doesn't matter. _God John. Forget about it. It doesn't matter._

Angelo takes our orders, my order. Sherlock rarely eats anything when we go out. I suppose I should find that strange, but I don't. I've accepted a lot of things as normal for Sherlock, and his eating habits are one of them.

Our food comes and I eat while Sherlock stares at the table. I can occasionally see his eyes dart up to watch me, but I ignore him. There's something different in the way he looks at me. I don't want to admit it, but I can see it in his eyes. It's almost like, dare I say it, lust. But this is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes lusting over anyone is absurd. Especially if that someone is me.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He's just watching me now, running his eyes up and down my face and my neck. I shiver. He's making me so bloody uncomfortable. But why should I care? So what if my flatmate is watching me like some sort of bloody pervert? What scares me is the fact that I like it. I like watching his eyes focused only on me, the way his tongue darts out to rewet his lips occasionally, his long fingers drumming on the table.

I shake my head. _What is wrong with me? I can't be enjoying this attention, especially from Sherlock. Pull yourself together John. _

"Do you mind me asking you what you do when you go out during the night?" I ask him, trying to sound like I'm making light conversation when really my heart is racing a million miles an hour.

He raises and eyebrow and says curtly, "Walking. Helps clear my mind." I nod and then there's that bloody silence again.

Sherlock must notice that I'm uncomfortable. He opens his mouth and breathes in almost as though he's going to say something, but then his eyes widen. He shakes himself a bit and looks away clamping his mouth shut in the process. He's been doing that a lot. Looking at me and seeming like he's going to say something, but then just clamping up.

I notice that his hand is shaking a bit. There's got to be something bothering him. This morning when I swear he was paler than a ghost and now here. He's closed his eyes now and he's breathing deliberately, slow and through his nose.

"You okay?" I ask him.

He opens his eyes and looks at me, breathing fast. I swear his eyes are glowing. "I'll be okay," he gasps. But he's doing that thing with his mouth again, clamping it shut and he's shaking like hell.

I grab his hand to try and steady him. He's cold as ice. That can't be good. "You're not okay. Do you want to head back to the flat?" I look at him trying to decide what to do with him.

He nods and splutters out, "The flat, sounds good." I pay for my partially eaten dinner and then I help Sherlock out the door, he's shaking like mad, but his grip on my arm is unusually strong.

We head toward the street, looking for a good place to hail a cab. I notice one idly driving toward us and I'm about to signal it when Sherlock whispers something in my ear, "No. No cab. Let's walk back."

"Sure," I say confused. This is weird. I've got to admit it. Sherlock and I usually take cabs, but it is a gorgeous night and the fresh air is probably good for him. We walk in silence. I'm supporting him and he's holding onto me. It's almost like he's having some sort of fit. I'm about to suggest that I take him to get some help, when he stiffens and grabs my hand.

He's got a grip like iron. I look up into his face trying to find what's going on in that head of his. His eyes are wild and he's breathing fast. I start to say that I should get him to a hospital, but he pulls me forward.

We're moving quickly through the people walking past, him pulling me along and me apologizing to the people he's practically running over. What's gotten into him? One moment ago he was shaking like a rag doll and now he's dragging me along with such force that I can feel my feet leave the pavement more than once.

Suddenly he stops in front of a darkened backstreet. He glances once at the throngs of people moving past us and then he pulls me down the alley. I'm genuinely concerned now. This is weird, even for Sherlock. I don't say anything though; I just let him lead me further into the alley.

We stop near the end of the alley. It's quiet except for the sounds of Sherlock's and my breathing. He's still holding onto my hand tightly, it's actually starting to go numb.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" I question, looking at him fearfully. I don't understand and Sherlock is starting to scare me.

He doesn't reply, instead he does something that I don't fully understand. He shoves me against a wall in the alley.

"What the hell…" I stammer. He's locking his legs around mine now, pressing himself into me. I try to push him away, but I don't count on him being so strong. He grabs my arms and forces them to my side. Then he smiles.

I scream. Sherlock's canine teeth are fangs. Actual fangs, long, glistening, razor sharp fangs. Hs eyes are blazing an inhuman red, and when he laughs it's an evil sound that sends chills down my spine. I realize what he is, what's going on. It all makes sense now, why he acts so strange, why he always wears that coat even when it's sunny out, why he never sleeps, never eats. It's because he's a vampire. Because he's a monster. A monster that's going to kill me in this alley.

An inhuman hissing sound is coming from Sherlock. His face is so close to mine, his breath hot on my face. I grew up on stories about vampires and werewolves, but I never thought they were real. Or that my flatmate was one.

Sherlock's tongue runs over his fangs as his eyes do the same with my neck. I squirm beneath his grip but he places a hand on my neck, cupping it in his icy palm. He shushes me and then runs his hand down my neck. Despite what's going on I feel a sensation in my gut. It feels good to have Sherlock so close to me. _I shouldn't be feeling this way. This is wrong. Sherlock's a vampire, a bloody vampire, John. You have to call for help. _

I open my mouth but no sound comes out. Instead, I find Sherlock's mouth pressed to mine, his soft lips against mine. My mind tells me to stop, that this is wrong, it tells me to run, to get away, go for help, but I ignore it. Instead I close my eyes and enjoy.

Kissing Sherlock is like nothing I've ever felt, it sends sparks through my whole body. His hands are in my hair and my shirt. He's making noises too, not that hissing sound. It's more like a pleasurable moaning. I'm enjoying this for some reason that I don't understand. Sherlock grinds his hips into mine and presses me further into the wall. I gasp slightly at the sudden pain and my common sense seems to kick back on. _Stop it John. Get him away from you. _I know that I should run. I should, but I'm enjoying this too much.

His tongue slides past my lips and explores my mouth, mine does the same in his mouth, but then I cut it on his fangs.

Suddenly something happens with Sherlock. His whole body stiffens and he pulls away from me. I can taste the blood in my mouth from my tongue and I can tell that Sherlock can taste it as well. _Oh god._ _What have I done? _It's too late. I realize that I've made a fatal mistake.

Sherlock hisses and lunges at me pressing me hard into the wall. His mouth is at my neck, his tongue running over it slowly. I'm shaking. _I can't do this. I need help. Sherlock's going to kill me. _I try to push him off me, but he's too strong. He tongues my collar bone and I shudder.

"Sherlock," I gasp, clawing at his jacket, "Sherlock stop." He ignores me. _You have to get away from him. _I try to slip out of his grip, but he makes a hissing noise again. He's licking my neck again, making more moaning noises. I look up into his eyes. His pupils are dilated inside his red irises. I can't look away, there's something hypnotic about his eyes. He moves his eyes down to my neck, moving my jumper down simultaneously so that even more of my skin is exposed to him.

I'm shaking. I know what he's about to do. I don't want him to. I can't let him. "Sherlock, let go of me!" I hoped it would sound commanding, but instead my voice comes out in a pleading squeak.

I swear he's enjoying my agony. He smiles and makes that shushing noise again, running his cold hands over my neck, caressing me. His thin fingers tilt my head back slightly; I can feel his breath, hot on my neck, coming out in short gasps. I close my eyes, anticipating what's coming, unable to stop it, and then it happens.

I can feel his teeth sinking into my neck. Pain shoots through my body. My knees buckle under me and a moan escapes my lips. He supports me, keeping me up against the wall so that he can suck the life from me.

His tongue runs over my broken skin, lapping up every bit of my blood that it can get. There are inhuman noises coming from Sherlock, alien, animalistic noises. I clutch at his shirt trying to keep myself from blacking out. There's so much pain, my vision is blurry. I hear myself call out his name softly. _I'm going to die. He's going to kill me. God help me._

He pulls me off the wall and holds me in his arms, still drinking down the liquid that's seeping out of me. My brain is fuzzy, my limbs aren't responding. I'm going to pass out. If I do, there will be nothing stopping Sherlock from doing whatever he wants with me.

_Stay awake. Keep resisting him. _I'm trying to push away again, but my arms don't respond. I just end up letting them fall uselessly down by side. I'm at Sherlock's mercy now, I can't move, I've gone completely limp in his arms. I feel Sherlock's strong hands on my back, keeping me from falling. His lips are molded to my neck still sucking away at the hole he's created. I gasp his name one final time, blackness fills my vision and then everything goes dark.

* * *

**And there it is. Chapter 3 to be posted shortly.**


	3. Just Flatmates

**Chapter 3. **

**Sherlock's POV:**

* * *

John Watson was like nothing I've ever experienced before. I knew that he would be something, but I wasn't prepared for what it actually was.

I remember when I first started to realize that I wasn't going to be able to make it the entire night. He was just eating, being normal as usual, and I was sitting across from him dying. I was dying to have him. I had to have him; nothing else was going to satisfy me. So when he suggested that we head back to the flat I said yes, hoping that I could hold on until we got there. But then I couldn't take it anymore.

Pulling him into the alley was a spur of the moment reaction. It was my body telling me that I had to have him now. Body over mind. Not something I'm used to. But I went with it, until I realized what I was doing.

Overpowering John was easy, a little bit fun even, being in control, doing what I wanted with him. I thought that maybe I could last and not go all crazy vampire on him. Sure I wanted to, I was ready to, but then once I kissed him everything just seemed to stop. Time slowed down. My whole body was on fire. It felt so good and then he had to go and cut his tongue. That's when everything went wrong.

As soon as I could taste John I knew there was no stopping myself. Feeding on him was amazing. His blood was different than anything I've ever tasted. I don't know if it was because he's AB+, or if it was because it was John. Whatever it was it was heavenly. Feeling it in me, coursing through my veins like a fire. I wanted more, I wanted it all. I would have taken it too, taken every last drop, every bit of life from my blogger, but something stopped me.

It was John, his voice, small and feeble, calling out to me, telling me to stop, pleading with me. Once I pulled away from him and saw him there, passed out in my arms, I realized what I had done.

I don't remember much else other than the fact that I must have said sorry a thousand times as I carried his limp body back to our flat. I'm still whispering "sorry" to him as I stand over him now, moping at the bloody wound on his neck that I created.

He and I are on the sofa, his head resting on my lap. I'm trying to get him to wake up, to come back to me. He's still alive. I can see the slow rise and fall of his chest. He wouldn't be dead anyway. I took only a little more than a pint, he should be okay. But I was so forceful, more than I've ever been while feeding. I'm afraid that I may have hurt him other ways, not just by feeding on him. Everything is hazy in my memory. All I remember is the feel of him, nothing else. God knows how many bruises I may have given him, or if I broke anything.

My eyes slide down to the twin incisions on his neck. I've managed to wipe away most of the blood so that I can see the holes that I created. I did this, I did exactly what I knew would happen, I hurt John. I hurt my blogger, my flatmate, the man I love. I hurt him and now he's lying broken in my arms.

I lean my head down and press my forehead to his. His breath blows on my ear, shaky, uneven. _He doesn't deserve what you did to him. _His eyelids flutter and he whimpers a bit.

I bury my nose in his hair. He smells like fresh air, clean and wonderful. "I'm so sorry, John," I whisper, stroking the side of his face. _I'm so, so sorry. This is all my fault. I thought I could control myself, and now you're paying for my foolishness. _My throat is tight, and my eyes sting.

Suddenly John's eyes flutter open. I look down into his bloodshot eyes, the soft blue surrounded by red.

"What's going on?" he croaks out, blinking a few times to focus.

"John," I don't know what to say, "I… I'm sorry." His brow creases and then suddenly he sits up and moves over to the arm of the sofa. He's shaking. I move closer to him, I want to hold him, bring him close, tell him that I'm sorry, calm him, but he recoils at my touch.

"No you stay away from me!" he yells, his eyes wide in fear.

I'm taken aback. "John, I-"

"Stay away!" he screams swatting my hand away. I move to my chair leaving distance between us. I knew this would happen. _He's afraid of me. You've gone and proven that you're exactly what you say you aren't, a monster. _John's watching me from the sofa. I hate the way he looks at me. Like I'm going to attack him any second.

"John," I say softly, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"Didn't mean to what?" John asks angrily, "Didn't mean to suck the living daylights out of me because you're a god forsaken vampire?" He glares at me with a hatred that I've never seen before. It makes me want to hide, to disappear.

"I should have told you sooner," I reply.

"Why didn't you?" John says his voice rising. "Or did you want to wait until you had the opportunity to nearly kill me in a darkened alley?"

"It wasn't supposed to be like that!" I yell at him, my voice cracking slightly from emotion.

"Then why was it?" John narrows his eyes, "What are you, Sherlock?"

I explain everything to him. From the moment I became the monster sitting in front of him, to when I couldn't take it anymore. I tell him that I want him, tell him that I need him, that I'm sorry for what I did, that I couldn't control it. He just watches me from the sofa. When I finish I'm breathless and it feels as though I've poured out my whole soul to him.

He swallows and then he says quietly, "Why me?"

"Excuse me?" I ask, not fully understanding his question.

"Why me, Sherlock? You could care for anyone else in the bloody world. Why does it have to be me?"

I sit back and think on the question for a moment. I honestly don't have an answer. There is no answer. It's just always been John, ever since I first met him. Ever since his scent filled my head, since our first case together, since we became flatmates, since I first noticed the way he types, key by key, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth, since he came downstairs in that striped jumper, since I noticed how deep his eyes were. It's always been John, for reasons that I can't fully comprehend.

I attempt to tell him this, but my words fall over themselves. I sound like an idiot, spluttering off my feelings. I'm not good at this sort of thing. John knows that. Finally I just fall silent and look at him for an answer.

He's been quiet, just letting me talk. He looks over at me with something close to pity in his eyes. He's sorry for me.

His eyebrows furrow and he says, "You actually care? You're actually capable of feeling? You, Sherlock Holmes, can care for someone besides himself?"

"Of course I can!" I yell at him, throwing my hands up in exasperation. What does he want me to say? I've already said everything. Does he want me to get down on my knees and beg him to see that I love him, that I need him?

I don't know what else to do so I just say softly, "If you want to leave, you can. I understand."

"What?" John questions, confused at the quick change of subject.

"If you want to go, it's all right. I over stepped the line. I, how does one put it, invaded your personal boundaries. I'm sorry, and if you don't want to have anything to do with me, I understand." It's killing me to tell him that I will be okay if he leaves. Who am I kidding. I'll die without him._ But you have to let him go. It's safer for him. If you really love him you'll let him go._

"Sherlock," John says, interrupting my thoughts, "I'm not going anywhere." I look at him, genuinely surprised.

"You're not leaving?" I ask, hopeful.

John shakes his head. "Why would I go? You basically just told me that you'd keel over if I left."

"Then you're not bothered by what I am?"

"I didn't say that."

My heart sinks. Any hope that was there disappears. John would never accept me for what I am. I know that, and yet, I hoped that he might be okay with me. _Don't be stupid. Of course he would never accept you. You're being an idiot for even wanting to be with him._

"I think," John says taking a deep breath, "I think that we should just go on like tonight never happened. Live normally, like we've been doing. Solving cases, and whatnot. Live like it never happened."

"You want to just act like nothing happened?" John nods. I contemplate his words for a moment. He wants to just move on, pretend that I didn't nearly kill him, forget about the fact that I basically just gave him my heart. I go out on a limb and ask a question I already know the answer to.

"Normal. Just flatmates?"

John's eyes dart uncomfortably to the floor. He bites his lower lip and then finally says softly, "Just flatmates." He must see how crestfallen I am, because he immediately says, "It's safer like that, Sherlock. For me, anyway."

"But let's say, I wasn't this way," I reply. "What if I were normal?" _What if we could be together?_

John sighs. "I… we…" he closes his eyes and then he says firmly, "This is just how it has to be. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but this is how things are." He gets up shakily and starts toward the stairs. Turning around he says, "Normal, Sherlock. And if you ever feel like you want to, you know." He makes a hissing sound and bares his teeth, "Tell me, so that I can get the hell away from you. Now if you'll excuse me." He heads up the stairs, taking them one at a time making sure he's strong enough. I hear him shut the door to his room and then I sit there staring into space.

Normal. He wants things to be bloody normal. After what I did to him, he's staying with me as my flatmate. Nothing more. _This is for the best. This is how it has to be._ I try reassuring myself that everything will be fine.

John has so much confidence in me. He thinks that I'll be able to restrain myself, that there won't be any more problems in the future. God I hope he's right. Maybe having him just once was enough for me. Maybe I can go along like nothing happened. I lasted months before this night; I can keep away from him. It'll work, somehow.

_Who am I kidding. It will never work. You won't be able to last forever. You won't be able to resist, and then you'll hurt him, and he'll leave._

I know what will eventually happen, but for some reason, my brain refuses to accept that fact. I tell myself that I can do it, that I can restrain myself, that life will go on as it was. I fool myself into thinking that it will be okay, and then I cry for the first time in years.

* * *

**More of an emotions/discussion chapter, rather than a blood sucking frenzy. Next chapter gets interesting again. Promise.  
**


	4. Invisible Barriers

**Thank you for all the reviews! So glad I'm not the only person who finds this idea intriguing.  
**

**Chapter 4. Little bit of emotions at the beginning, and Mycroft, had to bring Mycroft in.**

John's POV:

* * *

I shut the door to my room and then I lean against it, using it for support. _What the hell just happened? _I stagger over to my bed and slump down on it. Closing my eyes I try to grasp the events of the past few hours.

So Sherlock's a vampire. That's a fact. He sucked out my blood in an alley. We're trying to go on like it never happened. And he loves me. That's also a fact. Sherlock Holmes loves me. _How. How could this happen? _I know how it could happen, but I don't want to believe that it's true. Or do I? _No, John. This isn't right. He's a vampire. You can't be with him. He just wants your blood. _

I hear a sound from downstairs. Mustering up my strength I go to the door and open it a crack. I can't believe what I'm hearing. It's Sherlock. He's crying. _Why is he crying? Unless… it's true. What he said. It's not all a lie to get my blood. Why would it be? _Sherlock Holmes has never confessed loving anyone, ever. And now when he says that he loves me I refuse to believe it because I'm scared, scared of him, but also scared that I might possibly love him back, despite what he is.

_Is this normal? To feel these things? _I know what it's like to feel like I'm in love with someone. I've thought I was in love before, I even was on the verge of proposing once, but what I'm feeling now surpasses anything I've ever felt. I want Sherlock so badly. I want to be with him. To have him to myself. To stare into those mysterious eyes of his, to try and tame those wild curls. _But you're forgetting what he is._ Why did this have to happen? Why does he have to be a vampire? We might have had a chance, but now.

My fingers drift absentmindedly up to my neck. I flinch as they run over the two holes. _You can't be with him and you know it. Forget about him. Just continue on like you never felt anything, like nothing ever happened. Like you never felt those sparks when he kissed you, or that urge when he ran his hands through your hair. Forget all of that. _

I shove my fists into my eyes and breathe, accepting the truth. Life will go on, even if I can't be with Sherlock. I just don't know how.

* * *

Surprisingly things do return to normal, for the most part, at least at first. We get another case and Sherlock immerses himself in it. He stays out for most of the day and night, which means that we rarely see each other. It's probably for the best. But I can't shake the fact that I still find myself looking at him and feeling those feelings. I try to be discreet about it, but it's kind of hard when you share a flat. It's not like I don't see his eyes dart up to watch me when he thinks I'm not looking. It's almost like there's an invisible barrier that's sprung up between us all of a sudden, and neither one of us knows how to deal with it.

Coming to grips with the fact that Sherlock's a vampire didn't take long. It seems like I knew all along, but didn't want to admit it. Knowing what he is, I notice things that I didn't before. Like how he uses his senses to solve the cases. I just assumed he was using them like any normal bloke would do, but I can see now that his senses are far superior to any normal person's. I also notice how his tongue runs along the inside of him mouth occasionally, like he's agitated by what's in there. And how he closes his eyes and just focuses on breathing, calming himself down.

Everything seems semi normal, until one day I'm walking outside of 221B and I see a sleek, black limo pulling up beside me. Mycroft. The door opens and I see a pair of legs, crossed casually, clothed in an expensive suit, a weathered umbrella at their side.

"Step into the car, Dr. Watson," Mycroft orders, his voice pleasant, as though it's completely normal for him to kidnap me in his fancy car, which it is. Normal for Mycroft. I slide into the seat opposite the older Holmes and then the car speeds off, taking some unknown course.

Mycroft looks down at me over his long nose. He annoys me so much, always making me feel like he's able to see my every fault, which he probably can.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" I ask, annoyed.

Mycroft purses his lips. "We need to discuss the matter of my brother."

I knew this was going to happen. Nothing escapes Mycroft, but I play along. "What about Sherlock?"

"I'm sure you are well aware of his condition," Mycroft says inspecting his umbrella.

"If by 'condition' you mean the fact that he's a vampire, yeah I'm aware of that. How long has he been like that, exactly?"

"About a year," Mycroft replies casually, "He was doing fine until you came along." He narrows his eyes.

"Oh, so now it's my fault that Sherlock attacked that girl," I say defensive, not admitting that I was also one of Sherlock's victims, even though I'm positive Mycroft knows I was.

"My brother is an interesting creature," Mycroft says looking outside, "Society, as far as we know, is unaware of his existence. His kind are few, it was unfortunate that he had to join their ranks. But we both know that there's no reversing what has been done. We can only prevent any future incidents."

He smiles at me. I want to punch him. "That 'interesting creature' is your brother, Mycroft. So what if he's a vampire. He's your family, and my flatmate."

Mycroft's tone changes. "I am well aware of my brother's feelings for you, Dr. Watson, and of the fact that you reciprocate such feelings."

He smiles again as the color rises in my cheeks. "You better not be spying on us," I threaten. "If you've got cameras in our flat, I swear-"

"I have my ways," Mycroft interrupts, "Best not to go snooping about though."

He clicks his tongue once and says. "It has come to my attention that you wish to stay on as my brother's flatmate."

"Why should you care?" I say crossing my arms.

"I would advise that you find lodging elsewhere, to avoid the possibility of future problems." He motions toward my neck with his umbrella. I turn my collar up to hide the puncture marks that are still there.

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell Mycroft firmly, "Sherlock's my friend and I'm staying with him." It's not like vampirism is the only thing Sherlock struggles with. I try to think of it as another addiction, it fools me into thinking that it could possibly be normal for Sherlock to drink blood as if it were tea.

Mycroft uncrosses his legs and muses, "If you are adamant about staying with him, fine. But I will say this," he leans forward, "keep away from my brother. Think of it as a precaution. And do feel free to call if you need anything, anything at all." He smiles and the door opens next to me.

I take the hint and step out of the car. Turning around I say, "Thanks, Mycroft." I start go, but then I say, "It doesn't run in the family, does it?" I say motioning to my teeth.

"Good day, Dr. Watson," Mycroft says shutting the door. The cars speeds away and I turn around to see that I'm back on Baker Street. I stand in front of the door that leads into 221B, reflecting. Who's Mycroft to tell me what I can and can't do? If I want Sherlock, he's not going to stop me_. Remember. Remember what Sherlock is. What he did to you._

I curse silently under my breath and then I head up into the flat. There are too many conflicting emotions raging inside me. Tea. A nice cup of tea will make me feel better, take my mind off things. Sherlock's usually out at this time, so it's a surprise when I enter the flat and see him lying on the couch.

"Didn't expect you to be in yet," I say walking into the kitchen.

"There was nothing of interest outside, so I'm here," he motions to the couch. I go about making us some tea.

"Got kidnapped again by Mycroft," I say putting the kettle on.

"Did you?" Sherlock answers, obviously unamused, "And what did my brother have to say this time?"

I move so that I can see him. "He told me to stay away from you."

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at me for a bit before responding, "That's probably for the best. Shouldn't be that hard. It's not as though we've been intimate recently, anyway." He's silent. He's right of course. We haven't actually had any physical contact since that night. I know why. It's that invisible barrier. I suppose it is for the best, but I desperately wish it didn't have to be that way.

* * *

More time passes. Sherlock and I keep our distances. However, when he solves a particularly baffling case I give his hand a quick squeeze. He acknowledges it and I think that's the end of it. But later that evening while I'm doing our dishes Sherlock surprises me.

I'm washing a dish coated in something that looks like piss, when I feel thin arms slide around my middle. I jump and drop the dish into the soapy water.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" I say trying to pry his fingers apart. He doesn't answer. Instead he hugs me tighter and presses his nose into the back of my neck. I can feel his warm breath running down my back. _God not again. You're not doing this again. _I'm afraid that he's going to go all out vampire on me again, but he doesn't. He just sways back and forth slowly with his arms still around me.

He nuzzles the back of my neck, sending chills up by back. I take a chance. Turning around I put my arms around his thin frame and hug him back. We stand there in each other's arms. I'm clutching him like I never want to let go, which is true. He's hugging me back as though I'm the only real thing in the world.

We stay that way for what seems like hours. Just in each other's arms, making up for all the lost hours of contact between us. Finally Sherlock pulls away and then he's back on the couch and I'm finishing the dishes.

We don't talk about the hug, we continue on like normal. Everything seems fine, other than the fact that I want him so badly. Everything seems fine, until he does it again.

* * *

I'm woken one night by a sound in my room. Sitting up I rub the sleep out of my eyes and try to see in the darkness. There's a sound coming from the doorway. A soft sound, almost like breathing.

"Sherlock is that you?" I ask groggily trying to get my eyes to focus. There's no answer. "Sherlock?"

Suddenly I'm knocked over by something. Someone's on top of me, straddling me, holding my hands down by my wrists.

"Get off of me!" I yell at Sherlock, struggling underneath him. _Not again. He's not doing it again. You can get him away from you John. _I try to push him off me with my knees, but he just cackles and presses them down with his.

He's towering above me, his red eyes glowing in the darkness, and his fangs glittering. _Get away, John. Get away. _Sherlock leans down and puts his face close to mine. He's just staring at me, his demonic eyes boring into mine.

"Get away from me," I order, attempting and failing to remove Sherlock from me. He stops pressing my hands into the pillows so that he can unbutton my night shirt. I use the momentary freedom to sock him hard in the jaw.

He sits back and growls, holding the side of his face. I think I did it, he's stopped, but I'm wrong. My attack seems to urge him on. He falls on me, pressing me deep into the bed which creaks dangerously. His keen fingers work their way into my hair and he starts making those noises again, those moans. Then he kisses me again, hard and long.

There's nothing I can do. I'm completely crushed under him. He rocks his hips back and forth on mine and I can't help but feel that want, that need. He must sense that my heart beat has increased because I can feel him grinning as he's kissing me.

Sherlock moves down to my neck, and I stiffen under him. _No. You can't let him do it again. _The thought of him biting me again and his hot breath against my neck makes me panic and somehow I manage to squirm out from underneath him and sit up. I back away from him, pressing against the headboard of the bed.

He's crawling toward me with an evil smile on his face. His eyes glint dangerously. _God, he's going to do it again. Get away John. _I try to get off the bed, but Sherlock lunges at me. He pins me between his legs and stares down at me, deciding what he wants to do with me.

He undoes a few more of my shirt buttons, pulling the shirt open slightly. He places a chilly finger on my chest and then delicately traces my collar bone. I squirm beneath him. His fingers move up to my throat, they hover there for a second and then Sherlock tips my chin back_. Stop him. You can stop him._ He's leaning down toward me now, slowly. I see his mouth open. I can see the tips of his fangs, lowering, getting ready to bite into me.

_You're not going to do this to me again. _I somehow find the strength to wrench my hands out from where he's pinned them at my side. I bring my knees up under Sherlock and I manage to push him off me.

He falls over the edge of the bed and I bolt to the door. The door won't open; my fingers are shaking so much that I can barely attempt to turn the knob. I can hear Sherlock getting up behind me.

Suddenly strong arms grab me around the middle. A deep voice hisses into my ear. "No use running. You're mine."

Sherlock lifts me up and throws me back on the bed, then he jumps in next to me, lying on his side facing me, keeping me in place with those hypnotic eyes.

Sherlock inches closer to me, his legs tangle with mine. He pulls me close to him, running his hands up and down my back. I try to push against him. _Resist him. You can get away, John. _I'm trying, but I'm not strong enough.

He turns my head painfully to the side, then he runs his tongue over my neck a few times, making me shudder. He bites me again. I gasp in pain as his fangs slide into my neck, reopening the wound that he had made that night.

I muster up what little strength I have left and I do whatever I can to get him away from me. I pull his hair, push against him, claw at him, but nothing works. He just grabs my wrists in his hand and holds my arms above my head, forcing my hands into the pillow. He slips his legs around me and pulls me closer to him, sucking away at me all the while.

I don't know how much blood he takes out of me that night, but I manage to stay conscious through the entire feeding. He bites me in more places this time. I feel his teeth in my shoulder and on other areas of my neck.

Throughout all the pain I keep telling myself that I can manage, that everything will be all right, because despite the pain and the fact that I'm basically a food source for Sherlock, I don't want him to let me go. I want his legs around me, to feel him pressed against me, his hands in my hair and on my back. I want to enjoy this moment without having to think about the fact that Sherlock is slowing draining the life out of me.

However, as soon as it started, it stops. I feel Sherlock's fangs retract from my neck and then he pulls me close to him, pressing my cheek against his chest. I clutch at him, breathing slowly trying to stay awake despite the fact that I feel like all my strength is gone.

Sherlock strokes my hair gently. What am I to him? A list of possible titles runs through my foggy brain: flatmate, friend, partner, personal food supply. The last one seems to be the truest. Why did I stay? I knew that this would happen again. I knew that Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist. I know what he is, and yet I never want to leave him. I want to stay with him. Stay here in his protective embrace.

I make a decision that night. No matter what happens, no matter how many times Sherlock sucks my blood, I'm not leaving him. I'm not giving up on him.

I bury my nose in his shirt, trying to ignore the fact that it's soaked in my blood. He presses his nose into my hair, breathing slowly as he holds me. I curl up against him, my cheek pressed to his chest, and it's then that I realize he has no heartbeat.

* * *

**And there you are. Next chapter coming soon...**


	5. A Note

**Chapter 5.  
**

**Sherlock's POV:**

* * *

I wake up with my arms around my flatmate. He's clutching at me in his sleep, breathing slowly, just holding my thin shirt in his fists, his nose buried in my neck. I realize with a start that we're in his bed. The worse flashes through my mind and my suspicions are confirmed when I look down at the sheets.

John's blood is everywhere, all over the sheets all over me, all over him. I inspect him as he sleeps. Four. There are four of my teeth marks on his skin, three on his neck and one on his shoulder. _God I did it again._

How could I be so stupid as to think that everything could return to normal. The moment that John's blood touched my lips I knew that I couldn't possibly last forever. He was so wonderful, so warm. He still is, lying next to me with his dried blood everywhere. The blood that I spilled. I'm responsible for this, for hurting him. I look down at him, curled up against me, sleeping, his breathing shaky. He's so innocent. He doesn't deserve what I'm doing to him.

I hate myself. I hate what I am and what I've done to John. John, the only person who I truly care about. John, my blogger, my flatmate. My John.

"Sherlock?" John's small voice brings me back to reality. He's looking up at me with concern in his tired eyes. He reaches a shaky hand up to my face and wipes the moisture off my cheeks. I didn't even realize I had been crying.

John shifts himself a little bit, so that he can see me more clearly and then he says, "I know that you're sorry, Sherlock." He grabs my hand. "But I want you to know that I forgive you and that I'm not going anywhere."

"What?" I stutter gripping his hand. _He's staying? Despite a second attack from me, he's staying?_

"I'm staying," John says firmly. He smiles slightly. "You need someone to take care of you, you great sod."

I laugh for the first time in months. John's laughing too. I look at him, he looks back at me. It's as though we've finally broken that barrier. He understands and accepts me, and I'm promising him that I will do everything within my power to make sure that I don't feed on him. I realize that that is merely postponing the inevitable, but deep down I hope that perhaps I can sustain my lust for his blood with my lust for other things, if John wants it that is. Although I think he might when he softly presses his lips to mine.

I feel that fire again. It's like when I feed, that feeling of fresh blood coursing through my system. But John is so much better, so much more fulfilling. I deepen the kiss and John sighs as my fingers work their way into his shirt, running over his tan skin.

It surprises me that I have no vampiric urges. He's so vulnerable here in my arms. But I'm satisfied to just have his lips on mine and his hands in my hair, almost satisfied that is.

The sound of John's phone stops us from getting any further. I pull away from John, breathless. He smiles sheepishly and says, "I should probably get that." I tell him to stay and then I retrieve the phone from the chair that it's resting on. I go back to the bed and slide in next to John, sitting up while he remains lying down. He puts his arm around my waist and nuzzles my side affectionately. I smile and comb my fingers through his hair.

"Who is it?" John asks looking at his phone. I open the text.

_Where are you? Expected you half an hour ago. _

_GL_

"It's Lestrade," I say showing the text to John. He reads it and his eyes widen.

"Shoot," he says getting up. "We were supposed to be helping out with a new case!" He stands by the bed and looks at me. "Well come on!" He orders.

I obey, jumping out of the bed and following him downstairs. Something's wrong, not with the case or the fact that John and I have just gone from intimate to work mode. There's something else, I can't put my finger on it. It's almost like a presence, a new scent, something close by, something evil. I dismiss the thought though and turn my focus to the new case.

I realize as we're rushing to leave that we're both still covered in blood. I point this out casually to John, who replies with a simple, "Damn." I run back upstairs and grab a jumper for him and a fresh shirt for me then we change.

Before we head out the door John stops me. "Sherlock," John says softly, a hand on my coat, "Why don't you have a heartbeat?"

It's such a simple question. So innocent. John has no idea what it's like to be me. No idea that I'm technically dead. That all the humanity was drained from me. How do I explain to him why he can't feel my heart beating, why my skin is so cold? It's because I'm a bloody vampire, but it's never just that simple.

"My heart has no blood to pump, so why should it beat," I say casually hoping that it's a good enough answer. It's true, all of my blood was taken. That's why I have to live off of the blood of others. Being a vampire is really a living hell, but it's made better by the fact that I have John.

John seems to think this answer is sufficient, but by the way his eyebrows lower I can tell that he's trying to figure out exactly what being a vampire entails. I leave him to his thoughts and we hail a cab.

In the cab I notice that John still has blood on his neck. I slide over to him and do the first thing that I think of, what would come naturally to me. I pull down his jumper and lick the blood off.

"Sherlock!" John hisses. The cabbie looks back at us and then quickly fixes his eyes on the road once he realizes what I'm doing. _That's right. He's mine and I'll do what I want with him. _I finish getting the blood off John, and then I intertwine my fingers with his. He gives me a cheeky grin and I give him a quick kiss before sliding back to my seat.

I realize that it's stupid. All this romantic stuff. I for one hardly even understand it, but it seems to come naturally enough and by the way that John blushes when I kiss him I can deduce that I must be doing something right.

We arrive at the crime scene and get out of the cab. I realize that I'm still holding John's hand and I quickly break us apart. No need to make it public, yet. John and I head over to where Lestrade and a few others are gathered.

We're in a park, deserted except for the occasional passerby, looking at the crime scene with interest. I walk toward Lestrade who's standing by a park bench. He's staring at the ground where a tarp is stretched out over what I can only assume must be a body.

"Finally," Lestrade says as I come to stand by him, "You were supposed to be here an hour ago."

"I was busy," I retort, looking quickly at John who's watching the tarp. I bend down and peel the tarp back. Underneath the tarp is a gruesome sight. It's a young girl, covered in blood and multiple wounds, her eyes open, staring skyward lifelessly, her face contorted into what could only be accurately described as horror.

"Amy Smith," Lestrade says above me, "aged 23, found dead last night with multiple wounds, great loss of blood." I nod and go about inspecting the body. Wounds: interesting shape and quantity, mostly around the neck and shoulders, bruises on her arms, forced attack. Purse contents: lipstick, wallet, mirror, tissue, phone. Pockets: time card, night shift. On her way to work, shortcut through the park, was attacked. Time of death: roughly around eleven last night. Interesting scent, almost familiar. Suddenly it dawns on me, it is familiar. This is the girl that I fed on weeks ago.

I look more closely at the wounds on her neck. Bite marks, clearly. _Vampire. But how? I didn't do this. Who did? _I stand up and walk away from the body.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asks pulling out a notebook.

I nod. "She was on her way to work when she was attacked by something. Something big. It held her down, notice the bruises on her arms. Can't be an animal though. Would've finished her off, it wouldn't have just left her here. I'm thinking human, though she wasn't attacked here. She was moved, scrape marks on her legs where she was dragged along by her arms for a bit. So we're looking at a deranged person, most likely a man, who killed her and then dragged her to this park. Public place, he obviously wanted her body to be found, but why?" I turn to Lestrade. "Was there anything else on the body?"

He bites his lip. "Yeah, actually there was. A note." He hands me a stained slip of paper. In wavy handwriting there are the words, _Come get me. _There's a smiley face drawn in the 'o' with blood.

I know instantly who did this. Jim Moriarty. I thought I'd seen the last of him about a year ago. He was the one who turned me into what I am.

It had started off as a normal case. I was working alone at the time, pre-John. A distressed woman had come to me, her husband had disappeared a week ago, and his body had recently been found with mysterious bite marks on it.

I investigated. This case was like nothing I'd ever seen before. The man had been drained of all blood, through twin incisions on his neck. I was never one for fantasy, but the first thought that popped into my mind was obviously vampire. I ignored the thought though and continued on with the case, my one mistake.

I took me less than a week to track down the killer. For some reason I went out alone once I found where he was. I was intrigued by the way he killed. Of course things went downward once I met him.

Jim Moriarty was a cold blooded killer. A vampire of legend. Residing in London, killing occasionally when he felt the need. He took an instant liking to me, must have sensed that I wasn't like his other prey, I was interested in what he was. The idea that there might be other creatures out there was somehow fascinating to me.

Moriarty seemed pleasant enough. My ignorance on the matters of the supernatural prevented me from seeing what he really was. He was a genius, no doubt of that. His mind was full of ideas, most of them horrific and demonic, but genius all the same.

He was my equal in intellect, but he was my superior in strength. I didn't realize what was going on until it was too late. Didn't realize why he was so close to me, why I couldn't move or run away. I didn't fully comprehend, until I felt his fangs.

He turned me into his kind. Made me like him. Sucked out every bit of my humanity. The he just stood above me laughing as I suffered. The pain I felt on that night was nothing I had ever experienced. His poison running through my veins, killing me slowly. I died that night, but I remained on the earth, in hell, in limbo, all at the same time.

Moriarty made his escape and I was found the next morning. For weeks I sat alone, refusing to see anyone, trying to understand what I had become. After about a month without eating or drinking, I couldn't take it anymore.

I fed on five people that night, went on a vampiric rampage right through the heart of London. The fact that I wasn't caught is a miracle. Mycroft found me the next morning, telling me what I'd done. I didn't remember any of it. Everything was a blur.

I was placed under house arrest until I could control myself. It took a while. Finally I learned to live off the blood that I got from the morgue. I hated the blood from there. It was never fresh, and I craved warm, flowing blood.

There were a couple of times before I met John when I lost it. The people I fed on were never seriously injured. I took as much as I could. But of course Mycroft had to intervene, telling me that he would imprison me if I kept it up. So I lived off what I could get from the morgue, and I slowly went longer and longer without any blood at all.

Then I met John. We became flatmates, and my infatuation with him began. Having someone so close to me all the time was torture. To be surrounded by his scent in our flat, to be able to hear the blood flowing in his veins. At first I thought that wanting him was simply because I wanted his blood, and it was that way for a while. My trips to the morgue were more frequent when we first met, my attempts to sustain my want for blood, John's blood.

Eventually I realized that it wasn't just his blood I was after. I began to want him, and I knew that was dangerous. Vampires aren't meant to be with anyone, especially their prey. But as time wore on my need for him increased. I did what I could to keep myself away from him. Long walks at night helped to clear my head. Then I went too long without any blood, and I couldn't stop myself from getting fresh blood.

And now I have fed off of John, twice, and he's accepted me. We might even have a chance if I can restrain myself and just focus on other urges besides feeding.

Now everything is falling apart, because of a note. Because of a signature. Because of a smiley face.

For some reason I feel a connection to Moriarty. Perhaps it was the fact that he was the one who turned me into what I am. I head back to the body I find that I can smell him. I breathe deeply, letting his scent fill my head. Vampires always smell different than humans, and our scents serve as warnings to other vampires, telling them that there's already one of us here, telling them to get lost.

As soon a Moriarty's scent invades my senses I know that I'll be able to remember it. It's sickly sweet and it makes me gag slightly.

I walk back over to Lestrade and say, "The man who killed this girl is not going to be easy to find. But I can tell you his name." I take deep breath, "It's Moriarty. Jim Moriarty."

"Wait," Lestrade says looking up from his notes, "Didn't we deal with him before. Wasn't he the one who-"

"Yes. He was," I interrupt. Only Mycroft knows the truth of what Moriarty did to me. Everyone else is under the impression that he had a little bit of fun torturing me, and then left me to die. If only.

"You sure you want to take this case?" Lestrade asks, obviously thinking that I'm not ready to face the man who "tortured" me nearly to death.

"I'll be fine," I say. I turn around and start heading toward the street. "Let me know if anything comes up," I yell back to Lestrade. Then I grab John's hand and drag him into a nearby cab. There's only one thing on my mind. Moriarty. I have to find him and make sure that no one else suffers because of him. That no one else has to go through what I had to.

* * *

**Jim had to be in this. It just wouldn't be the same without our favorite consulting criminal... who, in this case, is a bloodthirsty monster.**

**Chapter 6 coming soon.  
**


	6. Moriarty

**Chapter 6. Jim's here now. It's gonna get good.  
**

**John's POV:**

* * *

Sherlock is always so amazing, all the time. But he really shines when he's doing what he does best, solving cases. I always stand off to the side watching in awe as he goes about deducing. He always notices every detail, nothing escapes him. He's so calm during his work, so at ease with a job that most people couldn't even dream of handling.

But there's something different about him as we head back in the cab. He's staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the back of the cabbie's seat. He seems almost frantic, scared even.

"You okay?" I ask putting a hand on his arm. He seems to snap out of some sort of trance, jumping as I touch him.

He looks over at me and blinks a few times before answering. "I'm fine," he says quietly, but by the way he looks away I can tell that he's not.

"It's something about the case, isn't it?" I say. Sherlock looks over at me. He knows he can't fool me. I know him too well.

The cab stops at Baker Street and Sherlock rushes into the flat dragging me behind him. He sits me down in my chair and then he paces in front of me, thinking. I'm silent. I just watch him, waiting for him to speak.

Finally he says, "Jim Moriarty. He's back."

"Who?" I ask, confused.

"Moriarty," Sherlock replies looking upward. He sits in his chair and puts his head in his hands. "Jim Moriarty. The man, no, the monster that made me what I am."

"You mean he's a vampire too?"

"Yes. Did you not see Amy Smith's body? Bite marks all over it, excessive loss of blood, and the note." Sherlock gets up again and paces some more while saying, "Vampires have distinctive smells, warns others that this is their territory, their feeding grounds. Their victims carry these smells as well. Amy's body reeked of Moriarty."

"Wait," I interrupt as a though dawns on me, "Does that mean that I smell like you? I mean you, well you know, you did it twice."

Sherlock stops moving. "Yes. You do," he replies casually. "It's only noticeable to other vampires, tells them to stay away, that you're taken."

"That I'm what?"

Sherlock sighs. "Sometimes vampires will enslave humans, making them their own personal food source, draining them whenever they feel like it. I don't do it of course, but some of my kind does."

I don't believe him. "You've sucked my blood twice now." What if Sherlock has been lying to me? What if he really is just after my blood? "What am I to you, Sherlock? A walking buffet? Or were those just love bites?"

Sherlock looks confused. Then he says quickly, "John, everything I said was true. I would never use you." I watch him still not convinced, but then he comes over and kneels in front of me looking at me with those icy eyes of his. "Believe me," he says quietly taking my warm hand in his cold one. His expression is so pleading, so genuine that I have to believe him. _Why would he lie to me? _

I nod and he smiles. Leaning up he gives me a quick kiss and I giggle stupidly.

"Mrs. Hudson," I say pointing to the open door.

"So?" Sherlock says. Then he kisses me again for a long time, kneeling in front of me with his arms around my waist. I kiss him back, ignoring the fact that Mrs. Hudson could walk in on us at any moment.

Sherlock crawls into my chair with me, placing his knees around my hips, deepening his kiss even further. I pull him close to me, making the chair creak under us. I find myself unbuttoning the top buttons of his tight shirt. He slides my coat off my shoulders and pulls down my jumper ever so slightly. My heartbeat quickens. _Easy. _I try to breathe out of my mouth to calm myself down a bit, no need to rush things. But Sherlock seems to have other ideas.

He starts caressing me. I can feel his hands moving, exploring. I pull his coat off and slip my hands up into his shirt. He hisses as my warm hands touch his icy skin. He's so cold. Sherlock's kissing my neck now, slowly moving downward as he struggles to rid me of my jumper. I start opening the rest of the buttons on his shirt.

Suddenly Sherlock stops and lets go of me, going over to his chair he sits down and rebuttons his shirt. I look at him confused. _Is he really going to just leave it at that? No more? Almost fulfilling my fantasies and then just leaving? _

Then I see why he did. Mrs. Hudson appears at the door. I pull my jumper down quickly as she says, "You boys have a guest."

"Send him in," Sherlock says. Mrs. Hudson leaves and I see him quickly smooth down his hair in the parts that I messed up. Then he places the tips of his fingers together and winks at me. I blush.

Lestrade enters the room. He obviously has news, because he says right away, "There's been another. Same way. And this." He hands a piece of paper to Sherlock. "Another note, same thing."

Sherlock examines the note. Then he gets up and grabs his coat from where I threw it on the floor. He puts it on while saying, "Let's go." Lestrade leaves and I get up to follow Sherlock out but he stops me. "Stay here, John," he orders.

"I'm coming," I retort, pushing past him. He grabs my arm.

"No. You're staying." He pulls me back into the room. "I want you here."

"Why?" I ask crossing my arms.

"It's safer here than it is out there with Moriarty, and I want you safe. I'm not going to risk him getting you." I stare at Sherlock. He's actually concerned for me. He really wants me safe. I nod and he gives me a quick smile before leaving.

Time goes slowly as I wait for Sherlock to come back. I make myself some tea and see if there's anything good on the telly. I eventually fall asleep. I dream about vampires and death. Something is chasing me, trying to get me. I look back as I run and I see red eyes and sharp teeth. I trip and then my pursuer is upon me. It's Sherlock. He laughs and pins me to the ground. I struggle, trying to get away from him, but he's going to kill me. His insane laughter fills my head louder and louder, and then I wake up. The laughter's still there, except it's coming from the man standing over me.

I jump. I had fallen asleep on the couch, and now there is a dark haired man above me, watching me through red eyes. Red eyes. _Moriarty. _He's different than I expected him. Small build, I expected the hulking form of a murderer. But there's no denying that he's a killer. The way he moves, so smoothly. He's like a predator playing with his prey, which in this case, is me. _Get away John. This is the man that turned Sherlock into what he is. Do you want the same thing to happen to you?_

"Hullo," Moriarty says in a voice that's entirely too singsongy. He smiles and I can see the tips of his fangs poking into his bottom lip. He moves closer to me. I can smell the minty gum he's chewing, it makes me gag. I jump off the couch and bolt for the door, but he's there standing in front of it, smiling evilly.

"No use running," he says. He puts two of his fingers on my chest and walks them up until they reach my neck. He licks his lips and says, "Oh, you and I are going to have lots of fun together."

He inches dangerously close to me; I can feel his breath on my neck. I find my voice again and I yell, "Mrs. Hudson!" No answer.

Moriarty laughs, the chilly sound echoing throughout the room. "There's no one here, Johnny Boy," he says. Then he runs his fingers over my neck while saying, "We're alone. Think of the fun we could have."

"No!" I scream, pushing him off me. I run out the door. _Get out of here. Find Sherlock. Get away. _I'm almost down the stairs when I feel someone grab me around the middle. I know I shouldn't be surprised at how strong Moriarty is, but I am. He lifts me up and spins me around so that he's pressing me into the wall.

"Can't get away from me that easily," he hisses into my ear. He puts his hands on my hips and intertwines his thin legs with mine. His mouth hovers over my sweaty neck. _Stop him John. Stop him. _I try to push away from him, but he places a cold finger on my lips and shushes me.

He runs his fingers along my jaw and tilts my head back slowly. I feel his tongue on my neck. _Stop him. Get help. Go find Sherlock._

Moriarty takes out his gum and flicks it away, saying, "Don't want that." He licks my neck again and then says breathily "I want to be able to taste you."

He smiles manically and then I feel a sharp pain in my neck, I can feel the blood being sucked out of me. It's different than when Sherlock does it. It's more seductive, the way he draws my blood out slowly, his hands still gripping my hips, his legs tangled with mine. He jerks his knee up and I cry out in pain, stars swim in front of my eyes.

He retracts his fangs from my neck so that he can look me in the eye. I can see my blood dripping down his chin. He puts a bloody finger to his lips then pulls me close and whispers, "Shhhhh." into my ear. Then he rakes his fangs down my neck, creating stripes of blood which drip onto my jumper.

He bites me again and I feel more of my blood leave. Suddenly my vision turns foggy, pain shoots up and down my body. I feel weak. I must slide down on the wall slightly because I hear Moriarty's high voice say, "Oopsy daisy!"

I'm defiantly going to pass out. I manage to yell out the first thing that comes to my mind.

"Sherlock!" I scream again and again, yelling for all I'm worth as Moriarty slowly takes more of my blood. I continue yelling, my voice growing fainter and fainter until I don't even have the strength to speak.

I fall to the ground and pass out to the sound of Moriarty laughing.

* * *

**Chapter 7 will be posted soon.**


	7. All That Matters

**Alright. Here's Chapter 7. Last chapter. Thanks to all for the reviews and for adding this to your favorites!  
**

**If you want some more of Sherlock with vampires, I've started a new, but similar story entitled "The Unseen Killers." I'd love for you guys to check it out!  
**

**And now onto the conclusion of this story...**

**Sherlock's POV:**

* * *

The second person to be killed by Moriarty wasn't the last. As soon as I finish examining the body, there is a report of another killing close by. Lestrade and I head there and find a young man obviously killed by Moriarty

There's a note pinned to the man's chest. I pick it up and read it. _I've got him. Come save him. _Two smiley faces in the 'o's. Got who? _John. _I'm already in the cab before Lestrade even finishes saying, "Where the hell are you going?"

The cabbie is taking forever. I tell him to step on it more than once. The only thought on my mind is John. God knows what Moriarty could be doing to him, my jumper wearing flatmate, my blogger, my John. I feel anger rising up in me. I swear, if Moriarty even so much as laid a finger on John, I'm going to kill him.

I arrive at 221B and bolt out of the cab. As soon as I get through the door I know that something's wrong. There are blood stains on the wall next to the door and on the stairs, and there's an odor, an overwhelming sweet stench. Moriarty. I run up to my flat and burst through the door. Moriarty is sitting casually in my chair, while John is slumped on the floor in front of him.

I run over to John ignoring Moriarty completely. Turning John over I calculate the damage. There's so much blood, but he's alive, barely. I can feel his faint pulse beating in his shredded neck.

I look up at Moriarty with hatred in my eyes. They change to red as I stand up and grab him by his suit.

"Why?" I yell shaking him. He just smiles and laughs. I throw him back into the chair and stand there above him panting and growling, baring my fangs, my eyes burning. If I were going to kill him it would be now, but I can't. I don't even know how. He knows that it's all a show, and he's enjoying it.

He claps a few times and says, "Good. I didn't think you'd be intimidating, but you sure look it." He shakes his head. "Too bad I'm not scared." He smiles.

"Go to hell," I yell at him.

He just rolls his eyes and says, "I already did." Then he gets up and looks down at John uninterested. "He was fun while it lasted. A bit dull though, did you tame him? He seemed used to it. Still nice though." He licks his lips. I restrain myself from throwing him out the window.

"What do you want?" I ask him, kneeling down next to John.

"What do you think?" Moriarty says popping a piece of gum into his mouth.

I don't answer him. I'm lifting John onto the sofa. I set him down gently and then I turn back to Moriarty. He's watching me through his red eyes. He doesn't even bother to try and hide them, or his fangs. He smacks his gum a few times. I clench my fists.

Jim Moriarty. The man who took away my humanity, and now he's hurt John. I hate him with everything that I am. To see him burn in hell would be such a relief.

"You know," Moriarty says tilting his head to the side, "I was going to make you mine, Sherlock. Oh we could have had so much fun together." He sighs. "Got a little carried away though. Made you into what I was. That was my bad." He rolls his eyes.

"What do you want?" I ask him again, drawing out each word slowly, seething with anger.

"You," Moriarty answers.

"What?" I respond, my mind working furiously.

Moriarty smiles. He gets up and walks around me a few times looking me up and down while saying, "Our kind never get to have fun with each other. They're always too concerned with finding their next meal, or concealing themselves. But that's easy for us. We can get along in society, for the most part." He stands on his tip toes and peers into my face, "We could get along together, Sherlock."

"Never," I hiss into his face.

He looks dejected. Then he looks over at John. "I had one like him for a while," he says, "Used to let me do it whenever I wanted. But he was just so ordinary." He spits out the last word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He walks over to John and bends down, inspecting his limp form. I tense, ready to spring at him if he does anything, but he just says, "Doesn't it burn you up inside? They're just so ordinary. So day by day. So boring." He snorts and turns quickly around to face me. Then he says, "But you and me, Sherlock. We're not ordinary. Are we?"

He smiles and watches me like a cat watching a mouse. What am I supposed to do? I can tell what Moriarty wants, it's all too obvious. But he's a fool if he thinks that I will ever give in to his wants.

I lunge forward and grab him by the wrist. He giggles and I ignore him. I drag him to the door and practically throw him out in the hallway.

"Leave," I growl staring him down. He gets up and brushes his suit off. Then he steps forward, moving so that his face is an inch from mine, his breath on my lips.

"You'll miss me," he whispers, his fingers starting to work their way into my hair. I can see the demonic fire burning in his eyes, the glimmer of his fangs as he runs his tongue over them.

"No, I won't," I reply pushing him away with so much force that he falls on the ground again. He hisses and slinks toward the stairs. It's obvious that we're done, that his efforts have been in vain. Jim Moriarty will never get what he wants from me.

Moriarty starts down the stairs, but then he stops and turns around. "When you get bored of ordinary John, give me a call." He winks and then he's gone, leaving the smell of minty gum in his wake.

I lean against the door frame. I expected as much from Moriarty. I just didn't think I'd be facing him like that. I had plotted revenge against him, despite myself. Fantasized about making him suffer for what he did to me, making him bleed blood that he could never spill. But now, when I had the chance, all I wanted was to get him away, to make him leave, leave me alone, leave John alone. _John._

I run over to the couch. John is still out, his breathing shallow. _How much blood did Moriarty take?_ He took less than a pint, but I took some last night. Was it too much? I'm hesitant to take John to the hospital. How do you explain a situation like this? Suddenly John stirs. His eyelids flutter open and he looks around frantically. I grab his hand.

"Moriarty," he whimpers.

"Gone," I say stroking his face. He looks confused. I climb up onto the sofa and rest his head in my lap. "Everything's fine," I whisper running my fingers through his hair. His eyelids droop. I want him to rest; I need him to be okay. He's the only thing keeping me from turning into Moriarty, a mindless killer who does whatever he can to get what he wants.

"Sherlock," John says, his voice small.

"Hmmm."

He opens his eyes and looks up at me. "Promise me, that whatever happens, we'll still have each other."

I look down at him. He's so sweet, so human, so ordinary, so John, and that's what I love about him. "Of course," I answer.

"Promise me," John commands.

I squeeze his hand and say softly, "I promise." John smiles and I watch him until I'm sure he's asleep.

It's always the little things that make him happy. He's not affected with things that he can't handle, he's not cursed like I am. But he doesn't care about that, and I'm starting to think that I don't either. None of that matters. John's right. I have him and he has me. And that's all that matters in the end.


End file.
